


You call my name and it feels like home

by LittleMousling



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: 5 Times, Commitment, Declarations Of Love, Devotion, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Family Issues, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pick-up roleplay, Rimming, Trust, dumb jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18758647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Five times outsiders didn’t understand their relationship, and one more.





	You call my name and it feels like home

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to [FormerlyDF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/formerlydf/pseuds/formerlydf), who came up with the brilliant idea for this, generously handed it over, AND read over the fic after I wrote it. A goddess! Wonderful contributions also provided by [Laliandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliandra).

1.

Ronan watches Secretary Clinton out of the corner of his eye when he’s at these events. She likes to pull him over to introduce to people, sometimes so she can extricate herself from conversations, and sometimes just because she thinks he’ll be an interesting addition to the conversation. Sometimes because she thinks he’ll enjoy the person she’s talking to, which she’s not always right about, but he appreciates that she tries.

He’s nominally talking to some staffers from Senator Reid’s office, but they’re as distracted as he is, focused on their boss in the corner and when they might be needed. It works. All of Ronan’s friendships in DC are like this: they can be easy about comings and goings, and they know the work matters most.

He sees Secretary Clinton’s chin tip up, eyebrows raised, and he’s at her side before she fully finishes the gesture. "Ah, Ronan," she says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "This is Jon Lovett. He used to write speeches for me, and he’s at the White House now. Jon, Ronan’s on my Global Youth Issues team. I have to go talk to some Republicans—" this conveyed with an intimate grimace for them to smile at "—but I think you two might have some commonalities. Tell him about the, ah, video games, Ronan."

Jon Lovett had been mildly interested, wearing an expression Ronan thinks of as "cocktail-party politeness," right up until the moment Secretary Clinton said "video games" in that skeptical tone. That lights him up, and suddenly the room is lit up, too, because this Jon Lovett, genuinely happy, has a face that Ronan can’t look away from. He doesn’t even notice Secretary Clinton absenting herself, because he’s glued to the man in front of him. Smiling, he’s all dimples and bright eyes. "You play?" Jon asks, and it takes Ronan a beat too long to answer.

"I—yeah," he says. "Mostly PS3. Some PC games. You?"

Jon shakes his head. "Not lately. No one around here plays, it’s weird. New York was like—every guy you meet at least has Mario Kart or _something_ , but the political scene is completely different. If people have hobbies at all, it’s just sports."

"Ugh," Ronan agrees, even though he doesn’t mind watching tennis from time to time. "No, you’re right. It’s all just coffee and talking about politics at work, alcohol and talking about politics after work. Or, on my side of things, sometimes it delves into international policy, but at the end of the day—" He shrugs.

"Which—I won’t pretend I’m not exactly that person," Jon tells him, grinning. "I never shut up about politics. I just remember the days when I stopped every once in a while to play Myst."

"I love Myst! Myst was the best. Riven, I liked that it was harder to crack, but—"

"—yeah, but it just didn’t have that same, uh, ineffable charm. It was too—"

"—forced?"

"Yeah, exactly. Forced."

Forced, Ronan thinks, is exactly what this conversation isn’t. He’s pretty sure he could talk to Jon all evening. He’s pretty sure he wants to try. "So, yeah, I play. So if you need someone around here to—"

"Hey!" A stranger is suddenly in their huddle, hand out for Ronan to shake, his back angled to move Jon out of the conversation. "You must be Ronan Farrow."

Ronan cuts his eyes to Jon, who’s watching, amused. He doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere, at least. "Uh, I must," Ronan agrees. "And you are …?"

"Sal." His handshake lingers, and his gaze isn’t exactly subtle. Ronan’s used to that; he’s been used to that for a long time. He doesn’t like it much more now than he did at fifteen, feeling more like a target than an equal. Sal is handsome, and clearly knows it, but that doesn’t make up for the reek of entitlement. "I’ve been meaning to say hi. I was at State for a while when you were working with Holbrooke. What a jackass—I mean, _nihil nisi bonum_ , of course—"

"Of course," Jon says behind him, with a growing smirk. Sal can’t see it, and Ronan isn’t going to be rude enough to mirror it, but he does catch Jon’s eye and let Jon see, hopefully, that he agrees. Sal sidles a little more between them, like he can cut Jon off entirely from the conversation if he just edges into the right spot.

"So you must have the … stamina, to handle personalities like that," Sal continues, which isn’t the least impressive double entendre Ronan’s heard, but it’s near the bottom.

Ronan gives him a tight, uninviting smile. "Richard and I got on quite well," because he’s not going to say "Dick" and give this guy any kind of additional opening. "He was a brilliant diplomat, although he’d be the first to admit he lacked some social graces. It’s nice to meet you, Sal. I’m so sorry, I have to excuse myself. Mr. Lovett and I were discussing a topic of some delicacy."

Sal glances back, startled, at Jon, as though he’d forgotten about the man he was trying to crowd out of Ronan’s sight. "You and—really?"

Jon’s face hardens, and then he covers it with a false, angry smile. "Such a pleasure to meet you. Sal, was it? Please excuse us."

Ronan waits until they’re—probably—out of earshot before letting himself burst into laughter. "As if that guy can accuse anyone else of being a jackass," he says, and watches Jon’s face lighten a little. "I’m so sorry. You were telling me about gaming in New York?"

Jon smiles wider, easier. Not as easy as before Stupid Sal, but Ronan will take it. "I sold my consoles when I moved," he says. "They were mostly gathering dust while I was on the primary campaign. I thought I’d get back into it, but, you know. I live with a bunch of political bros, we just spend all our free time talking about politics."

Ronan fakes a shudder, and Jon laughs with him. Ronan can’t keep the pleasure of this conversation off his face, and can’t make himself care if anyone is watching them. "And of course I’m exactly the same, except more on the foreign policy side. Don’t get me started on Afghanistan, we’ll be here all night."

Jon takes it for the opening it is. "Tell me about Afghanistan, then." He matches Ronan’s smile, and Ronan thinks, _Thank you, Secretary Clinton._

****

2\. 

Lovett spends a week in New York before his move to Los Angeles. He stays with friends, because going home for a full week seems like a terrible idea. A couple of outings with his mom, and lunch with his dad—that’s a more manageable plan.

Well, he’d thought it would be, anyway.

"So he’s in England? For how long?"

Lovett shrugs. "It’s a PhD program, so it’s not a fixed period, exactly."

"But you’ll be in LA."

"Yeah," Lovett agrees. "Did I show you the pictures of the place I’m renting?"

It doesn’t work as the change of topic he’d hoped for. "Well, how is that going to work?"

Lovett’s going to give him another couple of chances to exhibit social graces. "I know it’s a pretty big house, but I have some good back-up options in consulting if I can’t get my script picked up. There’s always money in being a former White House speechwriter, don’t worry."

"I meant—"

"Yes, Dad, thank you, I knew what you meant. You don’t need to worry about that either. Ronan and I are good."

His dad doesn’t say anything, which feels a bit like a victory, so Lovett lobs him an easy one. "Mom said you guys are narrowing down options in Florida?"

"Probably Naples," his dad says, and sips his beer. "But Boca’s still on the table. Still the classic."

"Sure, yeah. Not South Beach, then? That would make visiting you a lot more fun for me."

His dad looks awkward, and goes quiet. Terrific.

"Oh," Lovett says, to fill the growing gap in the conversation. "Ha, Ronan’s texting me. He says there’s some minor aristocrat in his class and the guy keeps hitting on him."

His dad doesn’t laugh. When Lovett looks up, he’s making what Lovett’s pretty sure is meant to be an empathetic face. "Well—that’s to be expected, isn’t it? With the distance, and the difference in your lives. Bound to happen."

Lovett could ask " _What’s_ bound to happen?" and make him say it, or he could change the conversation and try to ignore that his dad thinks it would be easy for Ronan to leave him. He tamps down his own worst tendencies and just says, "Boca’s kind of overdone, don’t you think?"

His dad huffs. "Naples is full of lawyers who only work half the year. The boring kind—tax, mergers and acquisitions, you name it. Snowbirds."

"Not like you guys, who are fully committing to Florida in all its seasons," Lovett agrees, and manages to eke out an adequately pleasant rest of their lunch.

He texts Ronan back, after. _Do you think he’ll marry you without a prenup? I think that’ll help you keep me in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed. I’m willing to be your Camilla Parker Bowles on the side._

 _Sadly, he does not seem to be of the landed gentry,_ Ronan sends back, right away. _But I’ll keep looking. There might be a likely earl or something rattling around here._

That right there—that’s what his dad doesn’t get. The two of them are something special. Of fucking course it’s ridiculous to have an international long-distance relationship for years, unspecified years. Does his dad really think Lovett would do that for anyone who wasn’t deserving? Has his dad ever paid any goddamn attention to Lovett’s actual high standards, or does he just think all gay men are—

Lovett stops, breathing hard. Spiralling into chest-tightening anger about his dad’s flaws isn’t remotely as fun as texting with Ronan, and only one of the two activities is time-zone-limited. _Try for a duke. Dukes are the best, right? I’d be a GREAT duchess._

_In that scenario neither of us would be a duchess, but I do think you’d be great at it. What’s your willingness to call me His Grace?_

_I could be persuaded. Hey, do we think ‘ducat’ comes from the same root as ‘duke’?_

_If that’s a request for me to check the OED, I gotta tell you, I’m not getting up to do that._

_You’re so close to the source, though! No, just musing. I’ll google it later maybe._

It’s evening in Oxford; maybe Ronan’s relaxing in the halls, insofar as he ever relaxes. Maybe, if Lovett gets back to his friends’ place before they get in from work, he can Skype Ronan from their couch. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.

_What are you doing in 20?_

_From the way you’re asking, I’m guessing I’ll be doing you_

"Smart man," Lovett says, out loud, smiling down at his phone as he takes the stairs toward the 3 train. _Good guess_.

It’s good, if hurried. It’s one of the things about long-distance that Lovett never would have anticipated, that the sexual part could be somehow more intense instead of less. 

He thinks about sex with Ronan more than any guy he’s ever been with, partly because it’s rarely spontaneous, and partly, maybe mostly, because the whole setup means they have to _talk_ about it. They can’t just fall into bed with a three-sentence "what are you into?" discussion. They’re talking the whole time, pretty much, and sometimes Ronan sends him truly filthy, incredible, detailed emails about what he wants to do to Lovett and what he wants Lovett to do to him. Sometimes, more and more lately, Lovett sends emails back. 

Now, being a good guest and pulling his jeans back on even though he feels completely wrung out, he can’t help but think about how wrong his dad is. Not that he could ever tell his dad this part, of course. 

"I had lunch with my dad today," Lovett says, moving the phone to the coffee table, propped up a little, and rolling to face it. It’s not the most comfortable, but he wants to be able to see Ronan. "It was weird, I don’t know. He thinks we’re idiots, I think."

"In what way?" Ronan doesn’t have a roommate, isn’t staying on anyone’s couch; he’s still gloriously naked, and hasn’t moved his laptop from providing Lovett a full-body view. Lovett appreciates that kind of generosity of spirit in a man. 

He shakes his head, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "He thinks—I told him about your classmate, because it’s funny, and he was just like ‘well, obviously he’s going to leave you for some British guy,’ and I—" Lovett realizes, suddenly, that there’s no one he’s ever dated—hell, no one he’s ever been friends with—that he would have had this conversation with in this way, at six months. But he knows Ronan feels the same way, and somehow it isn’t terrifying at all. "I just redirected him, but I wished there was a way to make him get it."

Ronan shrugs. "He’ll get it with time," he says. "It’s—you know, objectively, he has a point. It just isn’t a question of what other people would do. It’s what we’re gonna do, and we’re gonna make it work."

There’s a warmth in Jon’s chest that he’s almost started to get used to feeling, the security and happiness settling in like it lives there, now. "Yeah," he agrees. "Eventually they’ll get it."

"Speaking of which, you should come out to the farm at Christmas. My mom’s gonna insist, for one thing." 

Lovett doesn’t know what he’ll be doing by Christmas. He has hopes, but nothing’s set in stone. "If I can, yeah. If I can’t—you’ll come to me during your break?"

Ronan smiles, grainy on the phone screen. "Of course." He leans down to pull the covers up, and Lovett drinks in the sight of him. He’s almost better swathed in blankets. Or, not better, but more—Jon’s, somehow. Anyone would want to see Ronan naked; Jon’s the one who wants to see him in blankets, in his loose jeans with the emo belt, in hoodies, in sickness and in health. "Is it hot there?"

"Broiling," Lovett tells him. "Ridiculous. You could fry an egg on the sidewalk. But I think LA’ll be better, when I get back."

"It’s never hot here," Ronan tells him, not for the first time. "Just—never. I was hot for like four minutes today in the middle of the afternoon and it felt miraculous." He sighs. "I did this to myself, huh?"

"And you love it," Lovett points out. "Studying with your own caliber of nerd in those Hogwarts buildings. Don’t pretend you don’t love it."

"Okay, I love it," Ronan agrees. "You’ll love it, when you come." They haven’t booked flights yet, waiting to see if Lovett’s schedule will firm up, but Lovett’s hoping for mid-autumn, to go and see Ronan and Oxford among the falling leaves. He’s sure he’s going to miss the seasons once he’s fully ensconced in LA, even if he won’t miss the temperature swings. 

"We’ll find a duke." Lovett stretches, picks up the phone and turns over on his back. "Two dukes? Is that too complicated?"

"Camilla Parker Bowles did have a husband of her own," Ronan muses. "I think you’d better find at least a wealthy businessman with a nearby manor house."

Lovett laughs. "It’s good that we have a plan for my visit. None of the boring museums and historical sites for us." They’re quiet a moment, and Lovett realizes he’s smiling as dopily at Ronan as Ronan’s smiling back at him. "My dad’s wrong about us," he says, because he needs to hear it, and maybe so does Ronan. "I know we’re for real."

"We are," Ronan tells him. "It’s not even a question."

****

3.

_"—afraid we’ll be on the tarmac a while longer, folks—"_

Ronan stifles a groan. His seatmate doesn’t. "Why even put us on the plane? I could be in the club right now with a gin and tonic. I could be in a massage chair."

"They’ll probably bring drinks around soon," Ronan says. He’s frustrated, but it’s easier to be the calm one when someone else is saying what he’s thinking. "At least for first class." As he says it, an apologetic flight attendant appears bearing a clipboard.

"Can I bring you anything while we wait?"

Ronan thinks about the long flight ahead of him and asks for a whisky and ginger, making sure to smile and thank the woman. His seatmate isn’t as gracious. "Why do they even put us on the plane, if we’re going to be stuck forever?" he asks her, and she goes into a patter about the nature of plane delays and the need to be ready to hit the runway as soon as it opens that Ronan’s heard before. It’s probably even true. Other passengers are looking over their shoulders, wondering why this gruff middle-aged man is holding up the drinks service; eventually, the flight attendant absents herself to collect the other orders.

"Just nonsense," the guy says. "I’m supposed to be at a conference in San Jose. I’m gonna miss my connection."

"Sorry," Ronan says. "I hope they can rebook you."

"I doubt it." This is his last note on the subject for now, at least; he lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head. "I’m Steve." He holds out a hand, and Ronan accepts it and trades his own name. "So what are you headed off to? Or do you live out there? You look the type."

That gives Ronan a smile. "What, like a surfer?"

Steve shrugs, genial now. "Sure. The hair, the eyes—you know, ‘tell the teacher we’re surfin’—’" 

"‘Surfin’ U.S.A.,’" Ronan chimes in, slightly more melodic than his seatmate. "No, I live in Manhattan. My partner’s in LA." He doesn’t usually tell strangers that; he’s tired from the delays, and it feels, sometimes, like his heart gets to the west coast hours before his body does. He’s ready to be there; he’s already feeling Jon’s arms around him, intangible but warm.

He supposes he could have guessed Steve would have an opinion to share. Steve’s already shaking his head. "Nonsense. Nonsense. Six hours in flight and a three-hour jet lag every time you want to see your girl? Do you know how many women there are in Manhattan? More of them than us, you know." He slaps Ronan’s knee a little too hard. "Young man like you—I’d kill to be your age and single in the city again!"

Steve doesn’t, Ronan thinks, know a damned thing about his life. He doesn’t know how to treat flight attendants; he favors a tasteless, colonial cocktail; and he wouldn’t know a good choice if it smacked him on the knee.

"Hmm," he says, and fishes in his carry-on for his laptop.

While they’re on the tarmac, he’s still got data, hot-spotted from his phone. He messages Jon an update about the flight delay, and then, quickly, _Going to hit enter a bunch after this message to conceal it. Seatmate is a jackass. Codename G &T. Details TK._

Sixteen screen-clearing blank messages later, he spells out the story to Jon in unkind detail: Steve’s wrinkled collar, his nasal voice, his failure to engage the seatbelt on the first three tries. He and Jon sometimes try to be each other’s better angels, but sometimes a man has to be petty, and right now Ronan is feeling exceptionally petty.

Jon sends him a photo of Paper—of _Pundit_ , rolling in the grass outside the house. He’ll get used to the name change eventually, though he’s not sure his mother ever will. _Rub her belly for me. Did you tell her I’m coming?_

 _It may have come up once or twice,_ Lovett tells him.

 _Planning to make you come up once or twice_ , Ronan sends back, not caring remotely if Steve sees it. _Whatever time I get there._

Jon’s response is quick: _Are we doing this now, or am I waiting for the flesh &bones version? Because if I’m waiting, you’d better make it worth my while._

_Don’t I always?_

Jon sends back just a thumbs-up, and then, _Fine. Fly fast._

"I’m trying," Ronan mumbles into the air, and then there’s a cabin announcement: they’re going to take off, finally. There’s a cheer from coach, and a grumble from Steve, and seven hours later Ronan’s climbing out of a Lyft at the house, suitcase rolling behind him.

They don’t often fuck right after a flight; Ronan’s usually tired, and feels airplane gross. Today, though, Steve’s voice is still ringing in his ear, the suggestion that Jon isn’t worth this, all of this. Steve doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

Jon greets him at the door with Pundit under one arm.. "Once or twice, I think you promised," he says, lifting Pundit up to sniff Ronan’s face. "I’ll put her away and meet you in bed? You want a shower first?"

"I want you to shower first," Ronan tells him, shutting the door behind him.

"Oh, I thought ahead." Jon leers, laughing a little as he does it, and disappears down the hall with their dog.

Ronan forgets about Steve as soon as he gets Jon spread out beneath him, back arched, begging for Ronan’s tongue. "Just—stop teasing, you monster, I need—"

Ronan’s only giving him hints of what he wants, focusing on the high, sensitive insides of Jon’s thighs, the curve of his ass. He waits; he wants Jon to get demanding, whiny. It’s a weird turn-on, but it certainly works for them, that Ronan loves Jon when he’s neediest.

"Ah, fuck, that’s—you’re such a jerk, you could just—just give it to me, already—"

"Oh," Ronan muses, breathing the words into Jon’s wet skin, "did you want something?"

"Fucking—eat me out, you jackass," Jon groans.

Ronan can do that. He can do that with verve and enthusiasm, in fact, enough to make Jon arch his back and give up on words. He can make sure Jon’s straining, thighs taut, by the time Ronan pulls back to take a few real, deep breaths. "Fuck," Jon manages, muffled into the pillow. "Don’t stop." It’s weak, like he knows he doesn’t need to insist.

"Not gonna," Ronan tells him. "But get up a bit and—yeah, that’s it." Jon’s ahead of him, already slipping a hand down to stroke himself as soon as he gets his knees planted to make room. 

Ronan watches for a moment, because it’s mesmerizing, because the sight of Jon jerking himself off has become the central axis of his own sexuality, and then dives back in.

"God, fuck," Jon mumbles, stroking himself hard enough that Ronan can feel the way his whole body moves with it. He keeps talking, filthy and gorgeous, and Ronan collects the words like treasures as he teases the soft skin of Lovett’s hole with his teeth, spreading him wide between his thumbs. 

He pushes a couple of fingers into Jon, holding his place. "Do you want to come like this? Tell me."

"I—fuck—no, I—no, you should fuck me," Jon manages, forcing his hand back down to the bed, cock heavy and dark where Ronan can see it between his thighs. "Fuck me, I need—missed your cock, baby—"

Ronan groans, grinding his hips into the bed. "You that hot, Jonathan? Need it that much?"

"You know I fucking do," Jon gasps. "C’mon—been thinking about this all day, just—"

"Roll over, then. Lemme see you." Forget Jon jerking off; Jon’s face in pleasure, that’s the pivot point of Ronan’s sexuality, the center of the universe of everything that represents sex to him. Everything he’s been focused on for five years, even when Jon’s just on the phone, even when Jon’s just inside his head. He looks at plenty of hot men, occasionally hot women, but it always comes back to Jon, because Ronan’s never been able to access that thing other people can, desire without connection. 

Jon’s who Ronan wants because he’s _Jon_ ; Jon’s who Ronan thinks about when he gets off alone, in a world of possibilities, because they’re _them_. No underwear model would know Ronan the way Jon does and make him feel safe the way Jon does. Ronan’s got scars inside and out; Jon knows them all by heart. 

He doesn’t say any of that today, although he has before. He just urges Jon over and drinks in the sight of him, sweat-damp and letting Ronan see every part of him. "God, you’re hot," Ronan tells him, and Jon laughs and spreads his thighs wider.

"Prove it," he says, reaching up to tug Ronan closer. "C’mon, don’t make me wait. I’ve been waiting all day. Been waiting three weeks." 

"Yeah, Jonathan. I’ve got you." He lifts Jon’s legs higher and kisses the soft inside of one knee. "You’re so ready for me. You’re so open, aren’t you?" Despite the words, he’s leaning up to grab his preferred lube and stroke himself wet with it, and drop it, closed, on Jon’s chest for easy access.

" _Yes—_ " Jon starts to say, and then it’s just a groan as Ronan pushes into him. He really is open and ready, taking Ronan’s cock so fucking easy, and Ronan tells him that in gasped phrases.

Jon’s eyes are raking his body, hunger shining out of them, like he’d devour Ronan if he could reach. Ronan would let him. For right now, though, Ronan wants to give them both the best fuck he can manage, smooth and rhythmic and full of Jon gasping, "You’re fucking me so good, you’re—I’m gonna come all over you if you keep getting me this good, Ronan, I’m—"

"Yeah," Ronan urges, and Jon gets his hand back around his cock, all speed now and no finesse. He’s gotten the lube out for it, and there’s a gorgeous shine trailing every stroke of his hand, the kind that sometimes looks like a lens flare on Skype. "God, love that, love watching you jack off for me, it’s so good. You’re so hot, Jonathan, _Christ_. Wanna watch you come, okay? Just—don’t wait for me, I want it."

"Fuck," Jon groans, long and drawn out. "Fuck, I—yes, yes, yes, yes, yesyesyesyes," running the words together until it’s barely a suggestion of a word, barely audible.

Ronan knows Jon’s signs, knows to shove in a little harder until he hears the great gasp of air and feels the way his legs tighten, the way he squeezes down so hard around Ronan’s cock that it almost hurts. "Fuck, yes," Ronan tells him, and watches him jerk himself through it, come all over his hand and his chest. "God, that’s so good, Jonathan, that’s so hot. D’you want—"

"Do the—" Jon manages, and that’s clear enough for Ronan to pull out and slide his wet cock along Jon’s, replace Jon’s hand with his own. Jon grunts, freezing himself in place, but he likes this kind of oversensitivity, likes Ronan to stroke them together and prolong the pleasure of it. 

Ronan can’t grip himself well like this, both of them together in his fist, but he can slide against the slick still-hard skin of Jon’s cock, and he can stare down at Jon’s pleasure-pain grimace, at the taut muscles in his biceps as he grips the bedcovers, and that’s plenty. "Fucking gorgeous like this," Ronan tells him. "You get me so hot, I can’t—can’t even—"

It’s drawn-out, when he comes. He’s been waiting and wanting and it feels more like a wave than a plummet from a cliff, more like he can ride the sensation over a few more thrusts and watch through slitted eyes as he paints Jon’s cock with come. 

He lets himself sag, finally, and move sideways enough to flop down curled around Jon’s side instead of directly on top of him. He breathes out, long and slow.

"So, you missed me," Jon says, a smile in his voice.

"Little bit," Ronan agrees. "Little bit, yeah."

****

4.

San Francisco crowds are maybe Lovett’s favorites. It’s not that _everyone_ is gay; it’s just that everyone gets it, even more than in New York or LA. He can go full fey and they love it, they scream for it. He can’t ever get enough of that.

So: he goes out, after. There’s a gay bar around the corner, and it feels like fate. He knows it’s not the best decision, knows there will be fans there, but he wants another taste of that feeling, that _fuck you, Syosset Middle School _feeling. The comfort and acceptance of a gay bar is something he can get with friends, in small groups. But walking in to cheers and adulation—he’s never had that.__

__"Oh my god," someone crows. "Can I just say, you’re like, amazing. Like so amazing! That was such a great show. Let me buy you a drink?"_ _

__Lovett’s had several already; it was not his most sober performance. Besides, the applause is better than a cocktail. "That’s okay, I’m good. Thanks, though. I’ll go—sidle up to the bar and get an orange juice or something."_ _

__"Do they allow that in LA? I’d think orange juice would be banned as a toxic substance." The guy laughs at his own joke. "Only veggie juices allowed."_ _

__"Ah, but we’re here, and the LA diet cops don’t have jurisdiction." The guy’s trailing him to the bar. He’s entertaining enough; fine. Lovett’s got to talk to someone, and someone who thinks he’s amazing is pretty much what he came here to find. "Sorry, I didn’t catch your name."_ _

__The guy sticks out his hand. It’s sweetly formal, the kind of thing Lovett likes: a solid tradition that helps create a clear social connection, no guessing. "Andy."_ _

__"Nice to meet you, Andy," Lovett says, shaking his hand, and then turns to get the bartender’s attention. "Can I get an OJ? Like, a giant one. Half the carton."_ _

__Andy waves a twenty. "On me!"_ _

__Okay, and there’s the line, the next social boundary. "No, I’ve got it. Thanks, really."_ _

__He shrugs and pockets the bill, so, okay. "Are you involved in politics?" Lovett asks him, trying to draw the conversation to easy territory. "Or just a spectator?"_ _

__"It’s 2017, we’re _all_ involved in politics."_ _

__"Good answer," Lovett agrees, and takes his proffered OJ from the bartender. It’s cool and sweet, exactly what he wanted after two hours of performing and drinking. He waits for detail, but Andy’s ordering his own drink, and Lovett settles against the bar, scanning the crowd. It’s been a while since he’s been in a gay bar alone—years, maybe, if he thinks back. It’s strange to be in here by himself, with no intention of picking up._ _

__"Thanks!" Andy tells the bartender, brightly, and turns back toward Lovett. "Your show is so funny. My friends and I all listen to it, like, religiously."_ _

__"That’s awesome," Lovett says, meaning it. "Thank you, that’s really cool to hear. We’re still working out the kinks, but it’s been fun, especially taking it on the road."_ _

__He shouldn’t have said "kinks," he realizes almost immediately. Andy’s leaning in again, a sultry smile on his face. In another life, Lovett would be very, very into this; in this life, he’s flattered, but edging toward annoyed._ _

__He’ll be careful not to say "edging," either._ _

__"I’m good at working out kinks, too," Andy says. It isn’t, Lovett supposes, the worst possible line._ _

__He laughs, gently. "I’m sure you’re terrific at lots of things, but I have a boyfriend."_ _

***

__"... and then he said, ‘Oh, I know,’ in this, I don’t know, sexy voice, like maybe he’ll blow my mind enough that I’ll take him home to you, the real prize—ugh. It was just—ugh."_ _

__"You’re the real prize, Jonathan, and don’t you forget it. Also, he might have wanted a threesome. Is that better?"_ _

__"I don’t know. Yes? No. Whatever. It’s always like this. Even when we met it was over the _very_ strong objections of that guy trying to shove me out of the way to get to you."_ _

__"What?" Ronan’s voice, over the phone, sounds legitimately confused. "I don’t remember that."_ _

__Lovett pauses, confused. He finds himself actually pulling the phone away from his ear and squints at it before putting it back. It feels like a shot from a movie, but he also feels like the only way to try to comprehend what Ronan’s saying. "What? What do you mean, you don’t remember that? That’s the whole story of how we met. That’s the thing."_ _

__"How we met is Hillary introduced us and I offered to let you come over and play on my PS3," Ronan says. He really doesn’t sound like this is a joke—but then, that could be the disguise of the joke._ _

__"Yeah, sure, but in between those two things, Sal the Magnificent tried to physically remove me from the situation with his hip so he could seduce you with, like, I don’t remember anymore, but some kind of strong implication that you and he were gods and you didn’t need to speak to any mere mortal. Meaning me. I’m the mere mortal."_ _

__Ronan’s already talking over him before he finishes. "—remember anything like that at all. All I remember from that night is you. She introduced us, and she walked away, and then it was just you. Nobody else registered all night, are you kidding? How do you—is this how you tell it? Because I hate it. I really—" Ronan sounds legitimately pissed. "That’s a really shitty how-we-met, Jonathan. I don’t remember some asshole named Sal, because what _I_ did that night was meet the love of my life." _ _

__Lovett’s quiet. He wishes he weren’t in San Francisco. He wishes Ronan wasn’t in New York. "I—okay."_ _

__"It’s not okay, Jonathan! That’s not the—I don’t give a fuck about Sal or any of those guys, okay? And it’s not my fault they come out of the fucking woodwork to hit on me, and you _know_ I don’t like it, and it’s not part of our story! The you-and-me story is just you and me, and it’s—" Ronan stops, breathing hard. There’s a long pause on the phone, and Lovett lets it sit there, not sure that saying anything will help just yet. _ _

__Ronan sighs, eventually, one long loud breath. "Sorry. Sorry, I’m overreacting. This year fucking sucks."_ _

__"I know," Lovett tells him. "I know, yeah. I’m sorry. Forget Sal. I miss you, I—the point is the you-and-me, even when I tell it like that. You didn’t care about him, you just—you looked at me like we were in on the joke together, and that was the—that’s how I tell it. It’s the you-and-me part."_ _

__Ronan groans, not a complaint now, more like the sound he makes when he rolls his neck, when he’s tired and grumpy, but not at Lovett. "Yeah, I get it now. Sorry. Fuck. If we—if we were in the same place more, we’d tell it together. You know? Like, how have I never heard you tell that? I hate that I’ve never heard you tell it, that’s the part I hate. I miss you. I miss the apartment, I miss—" He stops. "You had a good night, and I’m fucking it up for you."_ _

__"I had a good night, and now I get to help emotionally support my boyfriend, who’s trying to do something huge and important for the world," Lovett corrects him. "That part’s good too. You know that, right?"_ _

__Ronan audibly sighs, but it’s the soft kind, the settling-back-into-his-skin kind. "I—yeah. Yeah."_ _

__"Very convincing," Lovett chides him, keeping it gentle. "Really, though. I want to be here for you, that’s the whole deal. Especially when you’re stuck at a—when you’re stuck away from the apartment."_ _

__"Subtle, Jon," Ronan says, but it’s amused. "I’m sure the wiretap didn’t catch that at all."_ _

__Lovett twists his lips. They’re pretty sure—last he heard—that Ronan’s new phone isn’t being successfully tapped, but it’s certainly an exciting new world they’re living in where it’s a definite maybe. It leaves a permanent rock in his throat, and in his stomach, worrying for Ronan, but— "It’s worth it," Lovett says, for the hundredth or thousandth time this year. "What you’re doing. It’s worth it."_ _

__"I hope so," Ronan says, too soft, too uncertain. "I really hope so." He takes a deep breath. "I should get back to it. Are you all tucked in? Do you want—we can leave the phone on until you fall asleep."_ _

__Years ago, Lovett would have objected: the point was for him to comfort Ronan, not the other way around. He knows, now, that nothing comforts Ronan more than being able to feel like he’s helping. "That would be great, yeah. Thanks. I’m all tucked in."_ _

__"Okay. Love you, Jonathan. Sleep tight."_ _

__"Love you too," Lovett agrees, and sets the phone on the nightstand so Ronan will be able to hear him breathing._ _

****

__5._ _

__The Pulitzers pre-party is crowded with people Ronan would be thrilled to talk to, and yet somehow he’s wound up pinned down by a WaPo reporter named Luke who Ronan’s never heard of in his life, and who doesn’t seem to have ever heard the word "discretion."_ _

__"It’s absolutely yours," Luke says, waving a hand. Ronan hopes no one can hear this in the hubbub of the room; there’s confidence, and then there’s arrogance, and he doesn’t want to be known for the latter. "No question. It’ll be Pulitzer Prize Winner Ronan Farrow by this time next month."_ _

__"Well, we’ll see. I’m enjoying all the previous winners in the room tonight, isn’t this something? Not to mention the hors-d'oeuvres." God, he’s reduced to talking about canapés. He really needs to get out of this conversation._ _

__Luke is staring at him, though, in a way Ronan’s uncomfortably familiar with. Sometimes he prefers unwanted attention from men; at least it’s … affirming, sort of, somehow. But on the other hand, women, even when they throw themselves at him, never have this overtone of entitlement._ _

__"You really do have Sinatra’s features," Luke says, which is the nail in the fucking coffin of this conversation. Forget politeness; forget friendly ties with WaPo. "Just remarkable bone structure."_ _

__"Mm," Ronan says, noncommittally. "Oh, man, I think I see my editor, I’d better go ingratiate myself, you know how it is," and he’s gone before Luke can object._ _

__He really does see David, thankfully, and velcros to his side immediately. "Save me. Some cub reporter from WaPo wants to talk about my genetic history and also, unless I’m really misreading, participate in it."_ _

__David laughs, almost choking on a stuffed mushroom. "Hang on, Esther’s just gone for champagne, you have to repeat that when she gets back, she’ll love it. ‘Participate in it’—too good, too good."_ _

__Ronan’s pleased with it, too. He’ll text it to Jon after. He wishes Jon were here, not because it ever seems to stop people from hitting on him, but because Jon would have a better joke than his about it. Actually, Jon would have a whole run of them, and surely will tonight when they talk._ _

__Esther appears, bearing champagne, and Ronan dutifully repeats his joke. She snorts—he really likes Esther—and Ronan adds, "Jon will have a better joke, after I fill him in. You want me to pass it on?"_ _

__"You need to bring him to more events! He’s so delightful. And I have to tell him how much the boys liked that book he suggested. Alex is on to the fourth or fifth sequel at this point, I think."_ _

__"I’ll let him know," Ronan tells her. "He’ll be thrilled to hear it."_ _

__"He’s at least coming to the luncheon?" she presses. "David, tell him it’s a contractual requirement."_ _

__Ronan waves both hands. "We don’t even know if _I’m_ coming to the luncheon!" Every beat of his heart wants it, wants to win, wants the acknowledgement and the valor of it, but it’s not a certainty. It’s not. _ _

__"Oh, darling," Esther says, winking. "You know we have friends in high places. I really think you should keep that day free."_ _

__"Esther," David says, but he’s grinning. "Ronan, you heard nothing from either of us, okay? But—do try to get Jon a flight out. Or I’ll take Pfeiffer in a pinch, actually."_ _

__"Just anyone from the pod is a good plus-one?" Ronan asks, laughing. "I’ll keep that in mind. Not sure how Jonathan will take it."_ _

__"Not anyone, not anyone. Pfeiffer and I can talk about basketball."_ _

__"Definitely not Jon’s area," Ronan agrees. "I’ll see what I can do about a substitute."_ _

__Esther sips some champagne. "Don’t listen to David. We don’t get to see enough of Jon. _You_ don’t seem to see enough of him!"_ _

__It’s true, and it isn’t. "We make it work," Ronan says, his go-to cliché._ _

__"You know, David and I lived outside the city for years. It’s very doable. As a working reporter, you’ll always have to travel, but there’s no reason you have to be here instead of there." Esther puts a hand on his arm. She looks a bit like his mother, just now, looking into his face with sincerity and kindness. "You’re young yet, but trust me—family is so much more important than work. You can have both, but you have to make the effort."_ _

__Ronan almost expects David to step in, but he and Esther are a solid team, and Ronan’s never seen them rebuke each other in public. "You’d do good work from LA, too," David says instead. "Hell, I’d envy you the weather. We raised our kids in this climate, I don’t know what we were thinking. You don’t know stress until you’ve got three under eight who need to put on full snowsuits every time they play outside for four months. It’s hellish, I can’t believe we got through it."_ _

__"Don’t forget the boots and the sweater on the dog," Esther agrees. "I don’t miss those days. Teenagers are awful but at least they dress themselves."_ _

__"Based on my nieces and nephews," Ronan volunteers, "I think there’s something to be said for the eight-to-twelve range. Old enough to have a conversation, not old enough to swear at you. That’s the sweet spot."_ _

__"So, in your family, college-age?" David grins, and then he visibly spots someone in the crowd. "Oh, look, it’s Connie, let’s go say hi."_ _

__Ronan runs a hand over the phone in his pocket, but doesn’t get it out. Jon will still be awake to hear about all of this when Ronan takes off in an hour. For now, he’s going to make the rounds._ _

***

__"Hey, stranger."_ _

__Jon’s voice on the other end of the line, Ronan thinks sometimes, is more familiar than his own heartbeat, his own breathing. "Hey. What’re you up to?"_ _

__"Nothing as interesting as your night. You gonna fill me in?"_ _

__Ronan leans back against the pillows, smiling, feeling gravity set in fully now he’s lying down. "Think I met seventy thousand Pulitzer winners tonight."_ _

__"Is that all? Falling down on the networking, Farrow. I expected ninety thousand, minimum."_ _

__"Well, I had to hide from some WaPo—" He almost says _kid_ , realizes Luke probably wasn’t any younger than him. "Some reporter, I don’t know him. He felt certain he knew a lot about me, though."_ _

__"Category: father figures?"_ _

__"Somehow that’s always the category," Ronan agrees. "In this case, subcategory: hoping for daddy issues."_ _

__Jon laughs. "A favorite. What’d you do?"_ _

__"Just fully ran away," Ronan admits. "Spent most of the evening with David and Esther protecting my virtue. Esther thinks we should raise babies in LA, so look forward to that conversation at the luncheon."_ _

__"They don’t think we’d be depriving our kids of culture and sophistication?"_ _

__"I think they admire the shorts-in-December lifestyle you’ve been rocking lately. Doesn’t David follow you on Instagram?"_ _

__"You know he does," Jon says, which is true enough. "I don’t know. The weather’s great but New York’s New York. And we’d be closer to the farm."_ _

__"Yeah. There’s time, anyway."_ _

__"Oh, sure, you’re still young and spry, but I found more grey hair today, so—"_ _

__Ronan’s cheeks hurt from smiling at the ceiling. "Bet I can make you feel spry from here."_ _

__"I know you can." Ronan hears the squeak they haven’t figured out how to fix in Jon’s bed, the sound of Jon settling onto it. "Okay, sure. Make me feel young again through the medium of sex."_ _

__"You know, Jonathan, when you assume, you make—" He stops because Jon’s snickering, already queuing up some kind of ass-related joke. "Yeah, okay. I’ll call you back on Skype in a minute. Three minutes."_ _

__Jon audibly blows a kiss—Ronan’s never fully been able to tell if those are sincere or jokes or both—and hangs up on him. Ronan fights down his smile, and goes to brush his teeth._ _

****

__6._ _

__Lovett mildly resents having to get out of the pool to get a drink. At the first stop on their honeymoon, there’d been a swim bar. This place has, admittedly, a private pool on their terrace, where Lovett can’t reasonably expect to have access to a bar—nor where he would want to be watched by a bartender—but still, having to put shorts and shoes and a t-shirt on and walk the few hundred yards to order another drink feels comparatively unreasonable._ _

__Ronan’s wandered off—to nap, Lovett had thought, but he wasn’t in bed when Lovett popped in for clothes and his key-card. Birdwatching, maybe. _Not_ on his laptop in the ethernet-enabled "business lounge," if he knows what’s good for him. This trip is strictly no-work-allowed. _ _

__"Gin martini," Lovett instructs the friendly bartender. The warm air makes it hard to resent having to specify, although he does try for a moment to draw the bartender into his complaint: "Used to just have to say ‘martini,’ until the rise of the vodka martini. Remember those days?"_ _

__It’s fairly clear the bartender doesn’t. He is, Lovett realizes, only barely legal to drink himself. "Never mind," Lovett says, and signs his villa number to the tab._ _

__He could walk it back up to the room, but it’s shaded here, palm trees curving gently towards each other over the bar and the few scattered tables. The pool on their terrace is in full sun right now, and Lovett can hear his mother’s voice in his head, telling him to stay inside in the middle of the day, that no amount of sunscreen is enough. So he sits here and sips and relaxes another degree. Every minute of this trip has been better than a Xanax._ _

__"This seat taken?"_ _

__Lovett doesn’t startle; he does, however, crack a smile he has to hide at the atrocious fake voice Ronan’s putting on. He thinks it’s meant to be southern, possibly by way of Ireland._ _

__"Uh, no," Lovett says. "Free country."_ _

__"What’s a handsome fellow like you doing sitting all alone?" Ronan asks. Ah-ha. They don’t do this often, but Lovett’s ready and willing to play along._ _

__Well, play along in his own way. "Drinking," Lovett tells him, shortly. If Ronan wants to flirt, he can put in some real effort._ _

__"Sure," Ronan says. "Mind if I join you?" He swings around and orders a whiskey sour. The accent is dropping, thank god, like he’s realized he can’t keep up with it._ _

__Lovett wonders, amused, if the bartender will notice when Ronan writes the same villa number on his tab as Lovett had. Maybe he’ll make sure they adjourn to a table out of earshot before things go too far. Then again, maybe he won’t. Let the kid learn some things about happy marriages._ _

__He can’t say "free country" again—boring—so he just shrugs noncommittally, staring pointedly elsewhere._ _

__"Really, though," Ronan says, once he’s signed the tab and turned to face Lovett with his drink in one hand, knees just brushing Lovett. "Man like you can’t be in a place like this all alone. What would your—" He reaches out and almost touches Lovett’s ring "—husband think of that?"_ _

__"He’d think I’m an independent and self-supporting guy?" Lovett isn’t sure when he wants to give in to this. It’s never not an odd dance, if sexy, when Ronan acknowledges their relationship at the very moment he’s pretending to be a homewrecker._ _

__Which, actually … Lovett’s pretty sure he’s not up for infidelity roleplay during their actual honeymoon, but he’s got a better idea, if Ronan will play along._ _

__He lets Ronan play out his own plans a little more, first. "So he’s not here, then?" Ronan asks. "No one to keep you company? Because I bet I could … help you out, there."_ _

__There it is. In many respects he does love this, does get off on it: Ronan, approaching him, into him just from a look across a bar. But today, there’s something else he wants. "No, thanks," he tells Ronan, finally making eye contact. "I’m pretty sure my husband’s waiting for me in bed, actually, so—" He pauses to drain his martini and set it on the bar, standing up. "—I’ve got somewhere to be."_ _

__He stalks out of the bar area, but then lingers on the path, carefully not looking up when Ronan scurries past him towards their villa. He can’t hold back a smile, picturing Ronan swiftly reshuffling his roleplay plans and jogging back to beat Lovett into bed._ _

__The villa feels different when he lets himself back in, Ronan’s presence somehow lingering in the entryway. Lovett soaks it in, and then drops his key card on a table and heads into the bedroom to find—ah, yes. Ronan, naked already, covers around his waist, pretending to read. He’s got his glasses on; did he actually take the time to pop his contacts out? God, Lovett adores him._ _

__"Hey, babe," Lovett says. "You won’t believe what happened to me at the bar just now."_ _

__"Come and tell me about it," Ronan tells him, twitching the covers back and setting his book down. It isn’t sultry; it’s domestic, but it makes Lovett’s blood race, anyway. He kicks his shoes off and climbs in, lets Ronan tug him closer, his back leaned up against Ronan’s side, in the circle of Ronan’s arms._ _

__Perfect. "Well," he says. "This strange Irish-Texan man—" Ronan snorts; Lovett ignores it. "—hit on me at the bar. Really aggressive, too. Think he got off on the ring."_ _

__"I mean, _I_ get off on the ring," Ronan muses, "but in a different way, I suppose." He picks up Lovett’s hand and spins the ring with the pad of his thumb, and then leans in to kiss it. _ _

__"Mm, more of a homewrecking kind of way, this guy, I think. Probably didn’t know it was our honeymoon."_ _

__"Probably just thought you were too hot not to try it on with," Ronan suggests, voice warm. "All tan and rested. Can’t blame him one whit."_ _

__Lovett turns his head and kisses Ronan’s temple, his hairline. "Mm, well, it was kind of nice. Flattering. But I know what I’ve got at home. Just made me want to come back here and be with you, really."_ _

__He can feel the way Ronan’s body softens at the words, like he’s finally getting why Lovett didn’t play along. Lovett loves that, too—that Ronan had just gone with it, even though he must have been confused. "I get it," Ronan says. "That’s how I always feel. I just want to call you and hear your voice, when people—you know."_ _

__Lovett does know. He gets his own admirers, more now than ever, but not like Ronan does. "This guy at the bar—it kind of got me going," Lovett murmurs, close to Ronan’s ear. "Made me think about you, back here, waiting for me. You know, I think we’re supposed to stay inside during the middle of the day. Protect ourselves from the sun."_ _

__"So some reading time, then?" Ronan asks, but he’s already getting a hand on Lovett’s side under his shirt, feeling out his skin. "Tell me what you thought about. Me, waiting here for you—then what?"_ _

__Lovett hadn’t thought much past that, but he can play it out for them, easy. Years of phone calls and Skype make him an expert at setting the scene—he probably has his ten thousand hours of practice. "Well, let’s see. You’d be naked." He sweeps a hand down to Ronan’s bare hip, like proof, turning until he’s kneeling over Ronan so it’s easier to touch. "Like this, all soft-haired in your glasses, like when we’re at home. Relaxed."_ _

__"Mm-hm?" Ronan closes his eyes briefly as Lovett brushes the hair from Ronan’s forehead and settles more comfortably over Ronan’s thighs._ _

__"Yeah. Relaxed, soft."_ _

__"Not soft everywhere," Ronan tells him, raising an eyebrow._ _

__"No," Lovett agrees, but doesn’t take the bait, keeps his hands on other parts of Ronan. "But maybe you would be, waiting for me. Just being lazy, the way I like you." The way Ronan never is, really; maybe that’s why Lovett enjoys it so much when Ronan does slow down once in a while. "Not sure when I’d get back, you know? Just reading your book."_ _

__Ronan sets his glasses on the nightstand and leans in to kiss Lovett’s throat, and Lovett shuts his own eyes for a moment to feel it. "What next?"_ _

__"I’d come home and climb in with you," Lovett says. "And run a hand up your thigh, real subtle—" Ronan laughs "—real subtle, just giving you the option, if you wanted. And you want." He kisses Ronan, doesn’t need the muffled _yeah_ in response. He knows Ronan wants him._ _

__"I think you’d be so warm and comfortable," Lovett continues, "that it would be cruel of me to disturb you too much. And besides, I’ve been thinking about you the whole way home, after that guy hit on me, and all I’ve been able to think about is sucking your cock."_ _

__Ronan sucks in air, sharp. Somehow, no matter how long they’re together, there are a few phrases that get to him, every time Lovett says them. Lovett likes to press his advantages. "Thought about it the whole way home, kissing down your belly and nuzzling into the base of your gorgeous dick. You smell so fucking sexy, you know that? Right up close, it’s perfect. Makes my mouth water."_ _

__Ronan’s hips shift, and Lovett makes sure he’s far enough back on Ronan’s thighs that Ronan can’t get any easy friction out of him. He’s not making this easy on either of them, he’s decided. "I’d get my fill of smelling you, and then I think I’d just go for it. Not make you wait, just lick up to the head and suck it. Do that tongue-swirling thing you like, get a hand on you. Maybe you’d get needy and toss me one of your toys from the drawer, what do you think? So you can squeeze down on it while I’m sucking you off?"_ _

__He thinks Ronan’s trying not to interrupt him, which is sweet, but the harsh sound of Ronan’s breathing is doing plenty to distract him from the story. "Yeah," he continues, after a too-long pause. "Yeah, you’d want that. Maybe I’d suck it wet for you, make you watch me tonguing it instead of you for a minute. That green one that makes such a nice popping sound when I suck on it, what do you think?"_ _

__That gets him another fruitless roll of the hips, and Ronan’s fingers digging into his sides. "I could suck you while you tell me the rest," Ronan offers. "Or jerk you off."_ _

__"Mm, no," Lovett tells him. "You can wait. Just like you were waiting for me with your book. Where was I? Oh, yeah—sucking your toy wet and sliding it into you, watching that face you make, the—the way your eyelashes flutter and you look like you’ve been waiting forever to feel filled like that. Like you wish I’d fill you up all the time."_ _

__"Jesus," Ronan mutters, and fists his hand against Lovett’s skin, like he’s struggling not to touch himself. Lovett knows the feeling._ _

__"I’d watch you taking it, and then I’d wait for you to look back at me, so you get the full visual when I suck you all the way down." Well, most of the way down. Lovett’s a big believer in most being plenty._ _

__Ronan shudders, just a little. He’s tilted his face into Lovett’s shoulder, and his rough breathing is hot on Lovett’s skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "Love watching you suck me."_ _

__"Yeah, I know you do," Lovett tells him, not bothering to hide the smugness. "And you’d just lie back and watch and get harder and louder, telling me how good it feels. You’d tell me all kinds of filthy things, wouldn’t you? What’s that thing you say when you’re getting really close?" Ronan groans, and Lovett’s pretty sure that means he knows what’s coming. "About passing me around at a party, letting everyone have a try?"_ _

__"Jesus, Jonathan. You have to—please just touch me. Anything, just— _some_ thing, c’mon."_ _

__Lovett thinks about it, lets Ronan see him thinking about it, sitting back and raking his gaze over Ronan’s body. Perched on Ronan’s thighs with the covers pushed down, Lovett’s got a hell of a view. "No," he says, eventually, and Ronan groans._ _

__"Take your clothes off at least and let me look," Ronan suggests. "Compromise?"_ _

__"This is your State Department experience coming into play," Lovett tells him, grinning, and gets up to strip. "Compromise, indeed. I’m pretty sure this just makes it harder on you."_ _

__Ronan’s long looks are always flattering, because he never hides, even a little, how hot he finds Lovett. "Maybe," Ronan agrees, absently, staring at Lovett’s thighs. He follows the gaze with his hands, just setting them there. Lovett supposes he’ll allow it._ _

__"Where were we? I was sucking your cock?"_ _

__Ronan’s grip tightens on his thighs, predictably. Lovett doesn’t give him time to recover; he says, "And you’re telling me how good my mouth is, and I’m so fucking hard for you. And I tug on your hip so you’ll roll us over and you can fuck my mouth, and I put my hand on your ass so I can feel that dimple you get when you’re thrusting."_ _

__He’s on a roll, words tripping out of his mouth while Ronan stares and digs his fingers into Lovett’s skin. It’s a _zing_ in his own belly to describe the fantasy and make them both wait; it’s got him hard as iron. "You’re so close, and I’ve got a finger on the base of the plug to shove it up into you, and you, you’re so loud, you’re begging me not to stop, you’re telling me—telling me you want to fill me up, that you want to come all over my face, you want to stop and fuck me, you want everything all at once. It’s too good for you to be able to choose, isn’t it?"_ _

__"Yes," Ronan gasps, and leans his head in to bite down on Lovett’s shoulder like a man biting a leather strap during old-timey surgery, like he needs something to keep himself steadied._ _

__"Yeah, it’s—it’s too good, it’s too much, you can’t take it, but you want it to last forever, too. You’ve got a million mental pictures of me sucking your cock—" another gasp, air chilling his shoulder as it whistles through Ronan’s teeth "—and it’s never enough for you, is it? You always want to see more. More of me under you and on you and inside you and—"_ _

__"Jesus, _Jesus_ ," Ronan says, releasing his tooth-grip of Lovett’s skin and setting his forehead there, his hands flexing and releasing rhythmically on Lovett’s thighs. "Yes, Jon, always, yes." He’s flexing other muscles, too; his cock is rocking slightly up and down like he’s trying to get himself off by sheer force of will. Lovett’s not entirely sure he won’t manage it, even, because Ronan tends to achieve goals once he sets them._ _

__That’s not how Lovett wants him to get off, though, and he’s more or less at the end of the story, so he pushes Ronan back against the pillows and kisses him. It’s easy and familiar to layer himself against Ronan, stem to stern, feeling the hot press of Ronan’s cock on his belly. "Storytime is over?" Ronan mumbles, and then he’s rolling them over, into the center of the huge bed, planting a knee between Lovett’s. "You’re mine now?"_ _

__"Always yours," Lovett tells him, feeling too sappy to contain it, and then, "Don’t say—"_ _

__"My _husband_ ," Ronan interrupts, predictably, a laugh in his voice. "My partner in wedded bliss. My lifelong—"_ _

__"I’ll bite you," Lovett tells him, and Ronan laughs again, body shaking against Lovett’s. "What do you want? Tell me."_ _

__"This," Ronan tells him. "Don’t need much, you got me so fucking hard telling that story. Next time I try to pick you up, you’ll be single, is that it?"_ _

__"For you, I’d be anything," Lovett agrees, and pushes at Ronan’s hip until he makes room for Lovett’s hand between them. "Gimme—" Ronan’s already reaching for the lube before he finishes asking, popping open the cap to squeeze some into Lovett’s waiting hand._ _

__That’s all this needed, the slick easy slide of it. Ronan kisses him again and shoves up against his belly, and Lovett rolls his hips up to meet Ronan’s. Ronan’s right; just this is more than enough, the two of them pressed tight together in the slight breeze from the terrace. "You’re so gorgeous," Ronan tells him, pressing the words into his jaw and his throat, and then kissing his mouth again. "Perfect, you’re perfect, I love you."_ _

__"You’re a— _ah_ —sap," Lovett tells him. "Don’t stop."_ _

__"Love you, love your body, love your cock, love the way you talk, love the way—" Ronan grinds down harder "—the way you make me desperate, the way you make me need you so much, the way I can never get enough of you, love—"_ _

__Lovett gasps, shoves his hips up, and comes. It hits him before he can even form the words, before he can do anything except dig his nails into Ronan’s back. "Oh, fuck, love when you come for me," Ronan adds, and then, "You want—?"_ _

__"Yeah," Lovett says, bracing himself as Ronan keeps going, shoving up against his suddenly sensitive cock. It’s too much, way too much, and he wants it anyway. It sears his nerve endings like nothing else, like a different kind of pleasure, sharp and continual. And it’s also Ronan’s pleasure, the two of them still getting off together; he loves that part. He can’t talk right now, can’t tell Ronan, but Ronan knows. Ronan knows everything about Lovett worth knowing, and the rest of it, too._ _

__He braces, and endures, and enjoys, and then Ronan’s shuddering against him and Lovett feels come splashing hot on his belly. Ronan lets out a long breath and drops down over him, cheek against his._ _

__Lovett wakes up more or less like that, Ronan shoved slightly off of him, in the mid-afternoon. He blinks into the light and looks over at Ronan, dead to the world with his head pillowed on Lovett’s arm. He looks like an ailing vampire when he sleeps. Lovett adores him._ _

__He moves his arm, enough to make Ronan stir. "C’mon," he says. "Let’s jump in the pool, we’re crusty."_ _

__"Charming," Ronan croaks, voice thick with sleep. A smile’s pressing into his cheeks, even though he’s aiming for sarcasm. "Let me sleep, you monster."_ _

__"I want to jump in the pool," Lovett says again—maybe, he’ll admit, whines. "Get up. You said for better or worse, come on."_ _

__"That line wasn’t actually in the vows, as I recall," Ronan points out. "Go by yourself."_ _

__"If I go by myself, I’m coming back here and jumping on you soaking wet," Lovett warns him. "Pick your poison."_ _

__"I want a divorce."_ _

__Lovett snickers and subsides for a moment, giving Ronan a few minutes to finish waking up. He rolls in closer to nuzzle Ronan’s warm shoulder. "If Pundit were here, it would be perfect."_ _

__"If Pundit were here, we’d never leave."_ _

__"Fair point. You awake yet?"_ _

__"I hate you and everything you stand for," Ronan mumbles, and levers himself upright. "Okay, okay. Pool time."_ _

__"Pool time!" Lovett wraps his arms around Ronan from behind and kisses the soft skin of his ear, just to hear him laugh, and then runs ahead of him towards the pool. He knows Ronan will follow._ _


End file.
